


Turning my cheek [for the sake of the show]

by zanzibar



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:56:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanzibar/pseuds/zanzibar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a balance drummed into them from the beginning of time.  Appear available but never be available.</p><p>In which Jordan considers the dichotomy of his life and has some unwelcome emotions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning my cheek [for the sake of the show]

**Author's Note:**

> So here's the goal [ha! goal!] 2 more stories [probably more from the Hall/Ebs thing I've got going here] by the end of the year. Because I need goals and to write more. So I'm actually saying it here.
> 
> There's some handwaving about timeline, this doesn't actually follow any specific game and the NHL stuff is a little behind the tragedy that is reality.
> 
> Title from Kelly Clarkson's Catch My Breath [all hail Queen Kelly]

Jordan feels like his entire life right now is based on comparisons.

The AHL is different than the NHL.

Oklahoma City is different from Edmonton.

The United States is different than Canada.

Jordan feels like all of these things are probably pretty obvious. But at the same time he feels like the statement needs to be made.

Some things are not different.

The straight clean shot of adrenaline when the puck hits the back of the net.

The bone deep satisfied exhaustion after they’ve skated their asses off in practice.

The desire to keep working hard, getting better, building the core.

422 NHL games have been cancelled.

Jordan believes in what they’re trying to get done. He believes in the union and believes in their requests. But fuck he’s having a hard time with this.

At least he gets to play hockey. He imagines the nearly half-a-million dollar insurance policy Sidney Crosby needs just to do something more than practice, he thinks about Toews and his earnest, implicit Canadian dedication to getting a deal done. Jordan listens to as many conference calls as he can, votes when he needs to and religiously reads the notes provided to him when he can’t participate.

But when he can’t participate it’s because he has practice, or a game, or some other team function that takes him away. It’s a strange kind of irony that has the obligations of his right-now job pulling him away from those of his forever job.

Something clicks after the last set of negotiations. They made concessions, they presented a cohesive plan. The league walked away.

Jordan’s suddenly resigned to being in OKC till April. He feels the reality of a Canadian winter and being close to his family and a return to Edmonton fade away.

They aren’t celebrities in OKC, they rank somewhere below the Thunder, and OU [football and now basketball too] and probably some other geographically non-specific NFL, NBA and college-level teams and maybe NASCAR and high school football on Friday nights.

Jordan doesn’t think he’d ever wish to be a celebrity. He’s comfortable enough signing autographs and posing for photos and he’s learning to be comfortable answering questions after the game. But he’d be lying if he didn’t say it feels like a strange vacation to not be recognized on the streets in downtown OKC or at the grocery store or when he’s shuffling from down to the dumpster with epic bedhead and his feet shoved in Taylor’s too big flip-flops carrying a bag of trash.

 

* * *

Jordan’s been playing hockey his entire life. And at the ripe old age of 22 he’s well-versed in tradition and superstition and everything that goes along with all those things.

In a world full of comparisons he takes comfort in the familiar. The ice smells the same, skating is the same, Ryan centers their line, Taylor’s on the left, he’s on the right. As he has throughout his life he finds eternal comfort in ice under his skates, a stick in his hand and his boys on the ice, on the bench and in the locker room.

And then one of those things that should be familiar goes and fucks up his whole day.

There are a lot of names for the girls who hang out after the games - a lot of names Jordan isn’t especially comfortable saying out loud. Jordan’s seen guys do a lot of things with these girls - he’s dropped off guys to sneak into bedrooms and heard stories of girls bailing out bedroom windows in billet houses. But he has sisters. Sisters that he has a healthy fear of. And he lived with his grandparents when he played in Regina. There was no sneaking anywhere.

He watches the girls, watches the interplay that happens in the corridors after the game with a sort of detached knowledge that this happens, but it’s not something that happens to him. Sometimes he leans so casually into the wall that he feels like he might fall straight through and into the Room of Requirement by his sheer desire to blend in with the white cinderblock walls of the Cox Center.

[his brain likes to create headlines to go along with his thoughts - _Eberle second in Barons’ goal scoring, leads team in unexpected Harry Potter references_ ]

As always, his eyes are drawn to Taylor, there’s always a crowd waiting for a piece of Hallsy, waiting to take a picture, ask for an autograph, try to sneak in a phone number. Sometimes Jordan laughs at their attempts. It isn’t mean-spirited, much, it’s more the bone-deep knowledge that this isn’t something that he has to worry about.

It’s also because he certainly loves to mock Taylor. Because Taylor, objectively, is awful at this. He’s getting better with the press and he’s learning to give interviews where he strings together enough words to make actual sentences. But he’s a total tragedy when it comes to talking to the girls who are always waiting after the game.

And Jordan thinks it’s hilarious [mostly - not so much tonight].

There’s a balance drummed into them from the beginning of time. Appear available but never be available, always be approachable enough to never be labelled an ass but never approachable enough that someone follows you home. Sign for everyone, kids, parents, people who look like they’re going to sell things to the highest bidder and the girls wearing stilettos and shivering in halter tops. Pose for photos. Talk about teammates, goals, the lockout [briefly], penalty kill. Try not to gush too much about your boyfriend’s epic passing abilities.

Taylor is 100% not good at this. He’s either too focused on getting home for anyone to think anything other than that he’s a spoiled brat, elite athlete asshole. Or he’s a million times too friendly and suddenly he’s getting addresses and keys to hotel rooms that he’ll never use and random girls are twittering him their phone numbers and he can’t figure out how the hell he ended up in this situation. He falls on one side or the other, never in the middle. Jordan mostly tries to be understanding, but usually ends up smirking so hard that he’s practically crying.

Even then, there’s something infinitely comfortable about knowing that Taylor’s coming home with him after they sign their autographs and pose for photos and kiss babies and hug grandmas. Something settles for him when he knows that no matter what happens here - Taylor’s it for him, and he’s equivalently it for Taylor.

When the guys make fun of he and Hallsy for being basically married they aren’t wrong.

Usually they try to leave with either Ryan or Justin, or both if they can swing it. They’re all going to the same place and it makes things about a hundred times less awkward if it’s the four of them piling home instead of going two by two.

They have signals. Jordan was the one who came up with the contest. They all want to go home, the same way someone who’s spent a long day at work longs for their couch and the quiet of home. By unspoken agreement the first one to clap a shoulder loses. They don’t go home when the first guy wants to bail. They stick it out for the second to cave.

Jordan endeavors never to be the first.

But sometimes he is.

It’s nothing specific this time. A long day. An aching bruise on his left hipbone. A melancholy mix of homesickness and NHL-sickness and the heavy weight of responsibility and impending holiday’s and a scantily-clad blonde who just will not stop touching Taylor.

He’d just make for the door if he could. But he’s the one who instituted the rules, who insists on taking time with the fans [even OKC fans] when Taylor would rather escape out the side door and onto his bike without ever seeing anyone outside the locker room.

She’s wearing a faded Oilers t-shirt that’s cut and twisted and shredded into a tight fitting halter-top sort of thing and jeans that are so low-cut that Jordan wants to cover the eyes of the curious 8 year old who’s unwittingly getting an anatomy lesson while Ryan signs his jersey. She and Taylor pose for a picture and she wraps both arms around his waist and cuddles against his side and Jordan is seriously not in the fucking mood for this tonight.

He catches Schultzy’s eye first and barely thinks before he turns on the “please let’s bail” eyes and Justin winks back. Frustrated Jordan flashes his fakest media-ready smile and signs 2 Oiler jerseys and a puck and tries as hard as humanly possibly not to actually burn holes in the girl’s back with the strength of his glare [she’s tapping her manicured nails on his forearm now. Jordan is seriously so done with everything about this night].

He’s irrationally thankful it’s a weeknight. That they’ll be back at practice early tomorrow morning. That the guys aren’t headed out somewhere for the night, because he’s a team player. He’s the guy who’s going to go to the bar for beer even when he doesn’t want anything more than too-big mesh gym shorts and a hoodie and quality time tucked tight against Taylor’s side on the couch.

They lag behind Justin and Ryan as they’re walking out of the building. Taylor’s quietly content to let their hands brush as they walk side by side. Just before they turn the corner to exit the building Jordan tugs Taylor into a shadowed doorway just for a minute. Taylor raises an eyebrow in question and then without ever saying a word leans out to tell Ryan that he forgot his phone charger and they'll be out in a minute.

Ryan must take the excuse at face value, because their footsteps fade away and Jordan is left to fist his fingers in the hem of Taylor’s untucked dress shirt and try to tame the needy feeling jumping under his skin. He’s maybe never been more thankful than when Taylor’s response is to simply wrap his arms tightly around Jordan’s smaller frame and hold him close. He draws deep breaths, face pressed against Taylor’s neck breathing in the familiar clean smell of freshly showered skin and the laundry detergent Taylor’s mom included in the last care package she sent.

Taylor draws a hand back and forth across his shoulders until Jordan’s breathing slows and his heart settles

“Let’s go home, Ebs,” Taylor’s voice is quiet and he wraps his arms tightly around Jordan’s shoulders once more before ducking to press a quick kiss to his upturned lips.

Jordan nods and presses a kiss against the underside of Taylor’s jaw before leaning back, hands busy trying to smooth the wrinkles his grip left in Taylor’s shirt.

 

* * *

Their apartment in OKC is laid out completely differently than the one they share in Edmonton. It’s full of furniture that’s theirs but not really theirs and the view out the window is so obviously not home Jordan sometimes closes the curtains just so he can selfishly pretend that it's Edmonton outside the window.

Taylor shuffles toward the fridge while Jordan stands in the shadows of the front door and watches as the light spills across the linolium when he cracks the door.

“No,” Jordan’s voice is quiet, when he grabs a Gatorade and makes for the couch “bed.”

Taylor looks up, surprised at the flat tone of his voice. “Please,” Jordan’s voice eeks out. But Taylor’s already reaching for his hand and letting his sock-clad feet push them toward the bedroom and Jordan’s overwhelmingly relieved that he doesn’t have to beg.

Taylor’s stupidly meticulous with his game day suit, taking the time to hang everything up and line his shoes up next to the closet door. Jordan settles for dumping everything in a pile on the floor and collapsing onto the bed to unceremoniously plant his face in Taylor’s pillow.

He draws deep breaths and tries to calm down. But for every second he lays there alone his heart beats just a little faster.

Taylor finishes nitpicking his clothes and vaults himself onto Jordan’s back. He slides his lips across the lines of Jordan’s shoulder blades like he wants nothing more than to take his time. And Jordan is really, really hoping for something other than slow and sweet tonight.

Taylor taps his side and Jordan rolls onto his back. Taylor takes a second to press a kiss against the purpling bruise on his hip before sliding his body toward the head of the bed.

Taylor brackets his elbows on either side of Jordan’s head and teasingly rubs their noses together. Jordan tries to rush it, wants Taylor’s tongue darting quickly through the corners of his mouth, teasing and taunting and driving him insane. But Taylor’s intent on a far more sedate pace. He turns until his lips brush the corner of Jordan’s lips, slides lightly along the edge of his jaw to press a feather light kiss behind his ear.

He pulls back when Jordan tries to deepen the kiss, brushes his thumbs across his cheekbones, softens and settles with a slow tenderness that breaks Jordan open from head to toe. His body is heavy and warm, a reassuring weight that presses Jordan tight to the bed and reminds him that he’s not going to just fly away.

Taylor slides their hands together, presses their palms flat against each other and catches Jordan’s mouth in a kiss that he again refuses to rush, settling into a slow slide of tongues against each other that seems guaranteed to make Jordan completely insane before he even gets a hand on his dick.

“We’re going to get there,” Taylor grins impishly pulling back like Jordan’s telegraphing his emotions until they're the loudest thing in the room. Despite his frustration at not getting what he wants Jordan’s reminded of exactly why he fell in love with his best friend in the first place.

“But,” Jordan knows he’s whining, knows he’s being needy but can't stop arching his body against the weight of Taylor's larger body. “I want,” he thrashes his head against the pillows and tries to ignore exactly how desperate he sounds.

But the lingering low burn of jealousy mixed with displaced irritation makes him feel like his skin is stretched too tight across his body, like he’s going to shatter if Taylor isn’t there to hold him together, and he hates it, hates knowing that he let some nameless, faceless girl get him to this point.

“Seriously,” Taylor smiles again, slow and easy and everything Jordan ever wanted but was too afraid to say out loud. “I got you.” He’s sliding his hand under the pillow to snag the lube from its spot on the ledge under the headboard and gracefully sliding a pillow under Jordan’s hips. “You just have to trust me a little Ebs,”

Jordan loses himself a little in the press of Taylor’s warm fingers into him, in the slow, steady stretch of a rhythm that they’ve perfected together in the year since they started this journey together. He drowns himself in the familiarity this series of events, Taylor’s bitten-off groan as he adds a second finger and Jordan’s back arches off the bed. Taylor’s mouth pressed against his neck, against his collarbone, his head ducking to watch the intersection of his fingers with Jordan’s body.

Taylor sets his teeth against the muscle just below Jordan’s neck when he adds a third finger. He bites carefully at the mark that he left there for the first time months ago.  The mark never truly fades, Taylor’s mouth is drawn to the spot over and over again like moth to flame. It’s low enough that it could be another of the myriad of bruises from a lifetime of hockey, but it’s Taylor's mark, on Jordan, always.

Taylor reaches blindly for the condom at his side and Jordan takes the moment to appreciate the casual elegance of his motions. Taylor’s hands never fumble, even when he steals a peek and sees Jordan watching him from hooded lids. His hands are as casually steady here as they are on the ice.

He’s distracted by the competence of his motions and also by Taylor’s hands [honestly his hands, if Jordan needed confirmation of how far gone he is, well there's the sign].

“Open up for me Ebby,” Taylor’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. Jordan isn’t sure if it’s the nickname, or the slow stretch of Taylor sliding inside or the sentiment. But just those words and he’s panting for breath and scrambling for his dick and listing prime ministers and doing his level best not to lose it too early. He feels like he’s on skates just on the edge of too dull. Like he’s riding the wire between going so fast he could almost fly and so close to out of control he could practically fly to pieces.

Taylor sets a steady pace, easy and familiar and patient and the exact opposite of where Jordan thought this night was going to go. He closes his eyes against the onslaught of sensation and the unexpected lump in his throat.  Instead he focuses on Taylor’s slightly labored breathing, the predictable snap of his hips, his unerring skill for locating Jordan’s prostate with razor-sharp precision.

Jordan’s eyes snap open when Taylor slams his hips especially hard and he has to move a hand up to protect the top of Jordan’s head from bumping the cheap Ikea headboard they picked out because Schultzy suggested that they’d look less homeless if they had an actual bed instead of just a mattress on a frame.

When their eyes meet Taylor’s thrusts start to lose rhythm and he starts to run his mouth. Taylor fills the easy silence in their bedroom with a running commentary of words that aren’t really words, interspersed with Jordan’s name and a rainbow of profanity.

“Taylor,” Jordan feels the sob ripped from his throat as he comes untouched between their bodies, throwing his head back against Taylor’s hand and the pillows and gasping for air. He hardly ever uses Taylor’s real name, they live in a world of nicknames and jersey numbers and twitter handles, the more ridiculous the better [for god sakes they hang out regularly with someone who’s nickname is Tubes].

Taylor follows a few short strokes later, slamming their hips together until he bottoms out and his breath stutters against Jordan’s bare shoulder.

After their breathing slows Taylor disappears into the bathroom to ditch the condom and comes back with a wet towel that he uses to gently clean Jordan’s chest. He chucks the towel toward the bathroom without watching where it lands [and Jordan resigns himself to stepping on in it tomorrow morning when it’s still damp and cold and he’s sleep stupid and cranky and has to pee].

Taylor maneuvers them both under the comforter and presses himself against Jordan’s side, pressing a kiss to the damp, curling hair at his temple and slinging a long arm across his waist.

“Sorry I got crazy,” Jordan turns his head to rub his nose against the stubble of Taylor’s cheek. “It was a bad day.”

“You’re the only person I know who can have a goal and an assist and call it a bad day,”

“You had an assist on my goal,” Jordan grins, “and the hockey wasn’t the bad part, I just, I don’t know, sometimes it’s too much, even for me.”

“She freaked me out too,” Taylor admits, after a long minute of silence, proving again that he’s too perceptive for his own good. “But I knew I just had to make it through and we’d be home.”

Jordan doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just curls more tightly against Taylor and waits till their breathing lines up.

“It’s you Ebby,” he’s almost asleep, lulled by Taylor’s steady heartbeat and their shared breathing. Taylor presses a kiss against his forehead and uses the force of his lips to turn Jordan’s head so he’s looking up at him.

Taylor’s face is so open and earnest that Jordan thinks he would probably believe him even if the next words out of his mouth were that they were going back to Edmonton tomorrow and the Oilers were going to win the Stanley Cup. “I’m shit for actually saying it out loud. But you’re the one I want, no matter what state we’re in, what country we’re in, whether we’re playing in the NHL, the AHL or the backyard beer HL. You’re always going to be the only one I want.”

Jordan sucks in a sharp breath. Because they’re hockey players. They aren’t exactly known for sweeping emotional declarations. But he wants to memorize everything about this moment. The orange glow of the streetlight through the thin curtains, the hum of the neighbors dryer through the thin apartment walls and Taylor, stretched out against his side, warm and sated and so very, very real.

And for that there’s no comparison.


End file.
